Charles summoned Rene, a Florentine, the court perfumer to Catherine de Medici, to his presence, and bade him examine the dog.

“Sire,” said Rene, after a close investigation, “the dog has been poisoned by arsenic.”

“He has eaten a leaf of this book,” said Charles; “and if you do not tell me whose book it is I will have your flesh torn from your bones by red-hot pincers.”

“Sire,” stammered the Florentine, “this book belongs to me!”

“And how did it leave your hands?”

“Her majesty the queen-mother took it from my house.”

“Why did she do that?”

“I believe she intended sending it to the King of Navarre, who had asked for a book on hawking.”

“Ah,” said Charles, “I understand it all!  The book was in Harry’s room.  It is destiny; I must yield to it.  Tell me,” he went on, turning to Rene, “this poison does not always kill at once?”

“No, sire; but it kills surely.  It is a matter of time.”

“Is there no remedy?”

“None, sire, unless it be instantly administered.”

Charles compelled the wretched man to write in the fatal volume, “This book was given by me to the queen-mother, Catherine de Medici.—­Rene,” and then dismissed him.

Henry, at his own prayer and for his personal safety, was confined in the prison of Vincennes by the king’s order.  Charles grew worse, and the physicians discussed his malady without daring to guess at the truth.

Then Catherine came one day and explained to the king the cause of his disease.

“Listen, my son; you believe in magic?”

“Oh, fully,” said Charles, repressing his smile of incredulity.

“Well,” continued Catherine, “all your sufferings proceed from magic.  An enemy afraid to attack you openly has done so in secret; a terrible conspiracy has been directed against your majesty.  You doubt it, perhaps, but I know it for a certainty.”

“I never doubt what you tell me,” replied the king sarcastically.  “I am curious to know how they have sought to kill me.”

“By magic.  Look here.”  The queen drew from under her mantle a figure of yellow wax about ten inches high, wearing a robe covered with golden stars, and over this a royal mantle.

“See, it has on its head a crown,” said Catherine, “and there is a needle in its heart.  Now do you recognise yourself?”

“Myself?”

“Yes, in your royal robes, with the crown on your head.”

“And who made this figure?” asked-the king, weary of the wretched farce.  “The King of Navarre, of course!”

“No, sire; he did not actually make it, but it was found in the rooms of M. de la Mole, who serves the King of Navarre.”

“So, then, the person who seeks to kill me is M. de la Mole?” said Charles.

“He is only the instrument, and behind the instrument is the hand that directs it,” replied Catherine.